The hunted

If they tear the quarry through,
One kneeling in the brambles
I will not look at them again
When I feel the musket ball
Clumped in a muscle- blood
Stench, guts a crusty scrabble,

Conspicuous. I would count the
Scant seconds hinging, small
Knobs of time nudging me into
A trench dug mud burrow,
Mottled from a life. There is no

Doubt that by this time they found
Me- bestowing intended death
Much to my dissatisfaction. She
Is on her way, my lovely, having
Heard the clap of musket fire.

A very little woman with black hair
Kneels beside me in loneliness. She
Does not have an answer, yet bundles
It as to sacrifice her feelings. She
Closes my eyes with a kiss. Useless
To my pursuers, I am now burdening death.

Copyright © 07/22/2019 lance sheridan®

The hunted

This entry was posted in Poetry.

17 comments on “The hunted

  1. MOMENTS says:

    So beautifully rich in word choices and deeply poignant. Cinematic, as if a movie had inspired you this wonderful poem. Has it?

  2. Judy Kim says:

    Wow, I think the last paragraph is especially beautiful!

  3. I love your posts. Pls read my posts too, you might like them! You never know!

  4. Devon Brock says:

    I am picturing a man hunted for sport, “kneeling in the brambles”, hearing the baying of hounds (based on the opening line). He has a choice, take his own life, thus denying the hunters their quarry, or wait and die by the hands of others, potentially being painfully ripped to shreds. It is clear that the former option was taken, and the almost surreal visitation in the final stanza is breathtaking. That was quite a dream. D

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